Understanding One's Part
by Felicia Angel
Summary: Holmes/Watson -my first, be gentle!- : Watson receives threatening notes, and Holmes goes after the man. Of course, nothing is easy, and even worse, Watson's reputation is on the line...FINISHED, with smut.
1. Chapter 1

**Title: Understand One's Part**

**Author: Felicia Angel**

**Rating: M**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock Holmes or Doctor Watson, they belong to ACD (who in my opinion didn't torture them enough and thus it's his fault for all this). The poem belongs to Leonard Cohen.**

**Notes: I almost got out of doing SH/JW slash on a large-scale version (not just mentions), but then the Slash fairy found some good ones and I had to oblige when she and the Torture Muse got together and picked on me. Then at random I picked up the _Selected Poems 1956-1968_ by Leonard Cohen (because I can't get a ticket to see him live unless someone wants to help me by adding in $300 per ticket…it's worth it for a Monday or Tuesday night, I swear it is!) and found a poem that kinda went with what the two muses has tossed at me, so…here it is.**

**And I'll put up the poem if you want me to…it might not seem like it goes with the story but I swear it kinda does! It will, anyway.**

-Watson-

It was shortly after Mary's death that the notes appeared. My fragile hold on sanity had been tested earlier, when I investigated the goings-on at Wisteria Lodge and believed, as I did, that all of it was with Holmes. After that and with help from both Mary, Lestrade, and even Hopkins, I was able to recover enough, only to fall back towards despair when she got sick again, this time fatally. Lestrade had quickly engaged me as a police surgeon and did what he could to keep me busy, while my neighbor that I had, before, placed more of my patients with while out, now took every chance to call me on even common cases or to push them my way in return. This, along with some of the published stories that I had written about the adventures Holmes and I had investigated, helped a little.

Then the notes came, and I found myself hard-pressed to take the advice I had once given Holmes about taking care of himself.

The first was simply a few words, stating that it knew what I had done in India. I was uncertain what it was talking about, since most of the time I had been sick and the rest of the time I had moved about a little too much and tried to stay a little active so as to be sent back with a new group, or with Murray, but instead was discharged and sent back to England. As there was no return address with the note, I tossed it into the fire and forgot about it, instead working through a problem of a dead man in a locked room that Lestrade was having problems with, as well as attempting to pen down one of Holmes' cases before realizing I had run out of cases to get permission to write, other then one in particular.

I did not want to write that case.

The second came after I saw Colonel Moriarty's letters proclaiming his brother's innocence, as well as blaming Holmes for many things, including slander. Slander! Holmes would never do such a thing! He would never resort to such things unless he was _certain! _Hadn't he shown that during the Culverton Smith case, where instead he had lured the man into a confession? Hadn't he shown it time and time again, to me and others, where he would never pick out the wrong person but instead search and search, until he collapsed both mentally and physically but the people responsible for the case was caught? He threw himself into danger, so long as a type of justice was served!

As I started the story, almost waving off lunch as I had breakfast, I saw the note and read it, freezing as I read it. The one name was enough for me to burn it and scatter the ashes thoroughly before, with a heavy hand for many reason, I took up my pen and wrote, sending the story and others off to the publisher the next day before once more throwing myself into work, not noticing the change of days until Lestrade forced me home and my neighbor ordered me rest and food.

How could anyone know that name? We were so careful, so very careful! Both of us knew the dangers involved if we were found out in our inverted, deviant care for one another that most took as friendship, and while I was discharged he had been sent back to another division, taking care of people there and, I learned shortly after I joined Holmes in our shared lodgings of 221b, dying in battle. But neither of us had breathed a word of it to anyone!

* * *

I had known, for a long time, that I was a deviant and I hated fate for giving me such a damning secret. I did enjoy the company of women, but it was with men that I always found more pleasure, always enjoyed more, and I hated myself for it. In the army, while it was frowned upon in some cases it was also viewed as something that, so long as it was never brought before a court could be done. Units held a few that would be together and stay together throughout battle, fighting harder and longer if they knew it could help the other. Murray, I believed for a time, was like that but I never found the courage to ask him, and Maiwand took that from me rather quickly. I had met one person, while I recovered, who also felt like me and who had pushed me into it, realizing my feelings beyond friendship and offering to relieve some of it before I left. I had been grateful for it and hurt by his death. Then Holmes had invited me along on a case, on our first, and then another, and another. I had written it up and he had scoffed at it, stating I was too romantic and it should've been a study for logic, not a story. I had always argued the point with him, for he wrote the monographs and I wrote stories, and challenged him more then once to write his own. But he never took it up, instead taking up cases and then introducing me to my Mary, the one woman I had met that I cared for as much as I cared for the other companionship. I was happy to have her, but then when I moved away from Baker Street and Holmes, when he had left me alone for a few weeks, I found myself wishing for him, wishing to take up another case, and growing sick from it. She had understood and allowed me the time to go with Holmes, though had she known that she was actually starting to cause a strange and unnatural affection to grow in me for Holmes…

I should have been tossed out of the association I cherished so much, and she would have looked at me with disgust.

Then Moriarty, and our race across Europe to keep Holmes safe, and his letter and—my heart ached too much, and my head hurt as I had pushed my dinner away before looking at the third note. Yet another mention of my deviant lapse that I burned, and from it I had such a horrid dream! I wanted nothing more then to find this tormenter and ask for peace.

* * *

Holmes, who has returned from the dead, who has asked me to return to Baker Street with him! Oh, how I wish he knew how much that washed away some of the pain that had become a daily thing, like I was decaying from the inside-out, from me! I would tell him if he wouldn't laugh at me, or if not laughing then he would dismiss it, or even gain from it some knowledge of my true feeling for him, feelings I cannot afford to tell him or else all will be lost.

Instead, I put out a small request to sell my practice, glaring at the two notes there to receive me before instead considering starting to move and handing over my patients to the new doctor that might come in. I throw myself back into work, not realizing my exhausted state until someone is shaking me awake, causing me to blink as I see Holmes has arrived to take me to dinner as Simpson's, something he had promised me shortly after his testimony and giving the VonHerder's air-gun to Scotland Yard.

"You don't look well, my dear Watson," he stated, putting a hand to my forehead as I sat up, looking at the report that I had half-finished, as well as the two glaring notes that I knew could end up in Holmes' hands, if his curiosity was the same as before.

"I'm fine," I muttered, standing and waving him off, "I was just tired."

"Perhaps we should put this off for a few days," he suggested, looking at me with a worried expression, mirroring the same one I had seen when I awoke after his abrupt appearance in my consulting room that had caused me to faint for the first time in my life.

"No, no," I said, ensuring I was presentable before getting my coat and hat, "I'm fine now, I'm sorry if I worried you."

Despite the look, he seemed to accept it, or not want to deal with my arguments, and so we took a cab there, having a pleasant dinner before returning, I bidding him a good-night and returning, after he was gone, to work and fixing the last few records.

It was well past two in the morning when I finally finished and, knowing I couldn't put it off, I opened the two notes.

The fire was out, so instead I tore them up and left them there to be burned in the morning.

* * *

I had wondered, after Holmes returned, if I shouldn't just tell him the truth and ask him to help me find the origin of the notes, but my cowardice and need for his company always stayed the words, as my mind easily conjured up the various ways he could toss me out or hurt me, none of which I cared to become reality.

And I wouldn't have, had the cursed things not followed me to Baker Street.

I had slept late, as a nightmare had plagued me during the earlier part of the night and I had to go downstairs for something to help me sleep, and as a consequence was late for breakfast, though it was still warm enough to eat. Holmes was looking through the post, handing me some of my correspondence after he opened it for me, and asking if I was feeling better. I was not in the mood to ask how he knew that I had been feeling poorly when he handed over yet another of those accursed notes. I didn't realize my reaction was so visible, but then again Holmes was good at reading people and, before I could stop him, picked it up and opened it.

I lost all appetite, looking down at the rest of the pack and shifting through it before Holmes' voice made me start, it was so full of anger. "How long have these…_things…_been coming to you, Watson?"

I looked up, surprised his anger was at the note and not me. Perhaps he thought it was simply slander upon my person. "Since Mary's death."

"You didn't tell Scotland Yard that someone was harassing you?"

"They don't come frequently, or at least not so frequently, and most were just…it's nothing, Holmes, someone just dislikes my writing."

He looked at me, his grey eyes demanding me to be serious about it. "Watson, this states some damning things about your…past associations. It even insinuates that you are a deviant."

I look down, not wishing to meet his eyes. "I know what they say, Holmes."

"And you never told anyone? Never attempted to find out who it was that is sending you these notes?"

I shook my head, standing and walking over to my seat. "What can I tell someone? That a person who leaves me a note with my post believes I'm a deviant? That the paper is a common source and has no other marks then block letters? I dislike them but I can use some of your methods, and I know that the person sending me these notes are taking care to cover their tracks." I did not wish for him to keep asking me questions. I didn't want him to realize I _was _a deviant, that this note was telling the truth about me and that, had he not been able to read me so well then he might have never known…

Holmes frowned, instead rising and saying, "Be that as it may, I _am _going to find the person responsible and deal with them."

"Holmes," I started, but he waved me off, and I realize that, despite his resurrection, he was still trying to work and, without such a case, a black mood might start.

I resigned myself to it, going to change before he started on more questions. When I returned, he only asked me about the notes and their contents. I omitted the full truth of my association with the mentioned man, and prayed silently that Holmes would not push the issue before going to writing up the account of our capture of Moran and Holmes' return. Holmes stopped his questions and instead turned to analyzing the note, leaving once during the day and returning with a mild look of triumph on his face, though it diminished when I didn't ask what he'd found, but instead held out a second note, this one the first real threat I had received.

_Holmes will drop the case, or else you shall suffer even more_

He looked at me as I looked out the window, and I saw from the reflection that he was more then a little worried for me. "Watson…I cannot drop it."

"I know," I told him, "and Mrs. Hudson saw no one, I already asked her."

Holmes went to ask anyway.


	2. Chapter 2

-Holmes-

I did not understand Watson's silence on the matter, which made me even more certain that some deeper hurt had been done to him during my death. I knew from my brother's quick correspondence that nearly sent me back to England that Watson had almost been sent to an asylum when he believed, during a mystery a friend had asked him to solve, that I was with him, but he had recovered, only to realize his wife was dying and nothing he or medicine could do would stop it.

I hated that I couldn't be there for him at that time of such grief, that I only found out later! I was certain at times, and my imagination sadly added fuel to the fire, that had I waited much longer to return he would surely have been even more in a state of illness then he is now. These notes, the damnable things, only hurt him more when he should be healing!

I pushed down my anger by once more going over what I had found. The person mentioned had been a friend to Watson while he was recovering in India, and had died a few weeks after we started rooming together, and right before the Jefferson Hope case. I recall the time and remembered seeing him much saddened, and the impulsive idea that perhaps, inviting him along after showing off what I did would actually help him a little. As it had, and seemed to if that one case during the early part of his marriage showed anything, then it seemed I had helped him recover and for that I was quite happy. That I had caused him such pain in three years I have yet to forgive myself for, even as I repeat that mantra that had he known the truth his life would have been forfeit to the old shikari and the remains of Moriarty's group.

The paper was unimpressive but I was able to figure out where it came from, and despite not having a chance to tell Watson of that one string, I was able to ask Mrs. Hudson enough to learn that she was certain a man brought it. I thanked her and went back upstairs, frowning as I saw that Watson had retired without dinner. I realized how dangerous this was for him, as I had gotten Mycroft to look after him and asked for news often, and had only learned that Watson was not doing 'well' with my absence. 'Well', it seemed, meant taking up my habit of missing meals when a problem arose, though this wasn't something he was really attempting to figure out. I think perhaps that was what had caused me to look into it so much, even despite the latest threatening note. I had never had to deal with an actual threat to Watson, and found myself feeling both afraid for what might happen to him as well as feeling angry over whoever would actually attempt to hurt him. The idea of him being hurt, in any way, by some outside source and for some purpose, made my blood boil and my mind conjure up terrors that I could later inflict upon the man.

I sat alone, thinking. Somehow this man had some intimate knowledge, or believed they had such knowledge, of Watson's relation with this man, had it gone beyond friendship to deviance. For whatever reason they believed that these notes would somehow harm Watson all the more and force him into something or other, perhaps force him to worry himself to death. I could see how such a thing would affect him more without his wife or I to help, and made a mental note to one day thank Lestrade for being Watson's friend in those years.

I reread both notes I had in my possession, though apparently there had been more and I would like to have read them. One simply stated that he should be ashamed of himself for attaching such a 'filthy' soul upon another that had no need for it, or most certainly would throw him out if 'he ever found out the full story'. I wondered briefly what this story was, and knew it had to do with India and Watson's recovery. I also believed it was the fact that Watson, when he loved, even for friendship, could give himself so fully to a person and without reservation that he was often hard-pressed upon finding a fault in them. I should know this, having been on the receiving end of many of his lectures due to my health or my habits. If he attached himself to a young man there and such attachment had been returned, perhaps someone mistook it for deviancy. I had heard a few rumors about what we two had done together, and wondered briefly if it was because of Watson's stories and how they showed his devotion to me.

Of course, Watson had been married and I would've thought that could dispel something, as he loved his wife as much as he loved me, and indeed, I don't doubt that had it come to a contest between the two of us, he would have broken over the strain to please us both.

The second obviously said he was observed, and I had found out from Mrs. Hudson that there had been at least two shady characters on the street, and with both descriptions I could easily find out in the morning if either had come in to get the paper from the supplier. I considered also speaking to Lestrade about the matter, as well as about putting someone near Baker Street, in case the letters took a turn for the worse, or in case Watson's life—

I stopped the thought once more, unhappy with the course it was taking. I would ensure that Watson was safe. It was the only thing I could do, and there were few ways I could fail.

I wouldn't fail. I would keep Watson safe, and make up for three years of heartache and pain I had caused him.

* * *

The morning came quickly, as this had quickly turned into a problem requiring pacing and more then three pipes. I had been silent enough that I heard Watson's disturbed sleep and his own pacing above before he fell asleep again, and a quick look around the sitting room said that he had taken up his medical bag with him. I hoped he wouldn't sleep in too far, and I also hoped for no new note with breakfast, as he had enough on his mind already.

I rang for breakfast, despite my own diminished appetite, and then looked through the morning post as Watson came down, later then usual again, and looking for all the world as if he had not gotten any sleep, though I knew he must have taken something.

I waited as he ate silently before asking him simply, "Who was Charles Harrison?"

He stiffened at the question, pouring himself another cup of coffee and downing it before saying, "A fellow patient. He went back to another unit shortly after I was discharged and scheduled to leave. After I got over the fever, he and I began talking, and became friends. He tried to stay in touch, but the last note I got was a report of his death, shortly after I had moved here."

"Watson," I muttered, glancing at him, "I cannot help you if you lie to me so."

He looked down and away, finding the wallpaper next to him, the ceiling, the fire, the floor, far more interesting to look at, avoiding my gaze.

"Watson."

"He was my friend," Watson repeated, his voice monotone and without the usual emotion I had come to suspect from him, "and helped me while I was starting to recover…"

"John."

He froze, as I had never used his Christian name and perhaps the calm, soft tone that had often caused those clients lying to me to speak the truth. That I now had to use it on him…I wished he would tell me the truth, what I already believed.

Watson was shaking now, I could see the fine vibrations along his skin and that he'd taken on a paler tone then I liked. "Please, Holmes, he was simply a friend."

I took in a breath. I wanted nothing more then to be as kind to Watson as I could, but…"I believe he was, as people have called them, a deviant. He, starting as a friend, began to care for you. You…" I paused, Watson looking down and I continued, "left, perhaps before he could say anything to you about it, fearing that you might not return such feelings. Instead, he must have written, perhaps to a friend or relative, and described you within it, as well as his…unnatural…love for you. The person either feels sympathy for him, or believes that your presence led him into deviancy. He learns where you live, but also that you live with me, a detective that could catch him and then stop it, or prove him wrong. He doesn't wish that, and upon learning of my death, as well as your loss of a wife, believes you might turn others, or perhaps that you need to be reminded of the man who wished to be with you and never got a chance to. Thus he sent notes, saying he knew the secret, thinking it was yours as well as Harrison's. Despite the fact that I had returned, he now was more courageous, believing that stating he would speak to me about Harrison would end our friendship. That he does not ask for money or anything says he seems to be watching his torment of you and enjoying it. That he knows I am investigating and now threatens more directly is showing his fear." I watched Watson this whole time, his face showing grief and self-loathing as I spoke, wondering briefly if what I said was the truth or not. Was it only one-sided, or perhaps…?

"Watson," I spoke as he remained silent, "I do not wish you to go anywhere without me or someone else. They will try to take you, and harm you. I will _not _let them do that. I do not wish anything more to happen that causes you pain."

He looked up and finally graced me with a smile. "Thank you, Holmes. I'm sorry, but…" he paused again, looking off. "It's nothing. I'm just worried, and wish I'd never seen those damned notes!"

I walked over and put a hand on his shoulder, grateful that his shaking had subsided. "I will find them, and they will stop. I promise you that."


	3. Chapter 3

-Watson-

He knows, and I am hoping that his aversion to the actual story was due to him not sure if he believed fully or not, or that he honestly was uncertain I might be like Harrison was. At least I had that, his uncertainty, to keep with me. If he didn't know, then I could perhaps hide it longer, stay as his friend for longer, hide my unnatural lust…

I stopped the thought, instead dressing and hoping he would not ask for more details. He had spoken of what had happened, only omitting, perhaps by choice or lack of data, a few simple facts, ones I could easily give him but knew in my heart that it would mean the death of our friendship.

I was the first to return Harrison's advances. In a darkened corner where we could see out sometimes, I had kissed him, quickly, lightly, with all the intent of blaming it on the heat or something equally silly, when a force of nature overtook me instead. His kisses were always so, as if he demanded to be let in everywhere. That he knew a hiding place I didn't question, believing that someone would come to find us in the place we frequented and had realized our feelings were beyond friendship. He was gentle, and seemed determined to give me as much pleasure as anything by touch alone. He wasn't the first man I had lain with, but the first I had done so who wished it to be more, who had dared to ask even though my fear for what could happen, as well as my knowledge of the damage that could be done by such a penetration, never allowed it on either side. Perhaps that was what caused him to drift away, though he wished to stay in touch but neither of us did, waiting for the other to start…

I forced myself back to the present, though my mind wandered again as I started my toilet.

Harrison's faces in my dreams were more and more being replaced by Holmes', and I hated myself in a way for it. Harrison had loved me, and would have gladly gone to the docks for me as well if he could, he'd told me this many times. Instead I had to leave, and lost touch before he died, some part of me wondering if all of it was a line, as many times that he proclaimed his love, he also asked for…things which I did not want to give to him, but in my dreams I gave to Holmes, and--

I splashed water on my face to try and clear my head of such things, finally focusing on the present. If what Holmes said was true, then the person believed I was responsible for Harrison's death or his fall into deviancy. Both, it seemed, warranted tearing at my soul and forcing me to face what I was, as well as what I felt for Holmes, and the fact that if he did find out while investigating, it would cause me to lose him again.

I couldn't do it again.

I dressed slowly, Holmes entering without knocking as I put on my jacket. "Are you alright, Watson?"

Silly thing to ask. "I'll be fine when this is over." I wonder how often I have to lie to him through this.

He gives me a quirk of a smile, as if he knows I'm lying but also knows I say such things anyway. Despite my chastising him for rather unhealthy matters, such as his cocaine and not eating or working himself into the ground, he as well seemed determined to make me realize that I couldn't say 'fine' anymore to anything and hide away, treating my own wounds. Once in a case I had all but exhausted myself while caring for him, pushing off his insistence that I sleep or cover up or do _something _against the chilly air that made my wounds ache all the more, but I had continually pushed it off, stating I was fine. When I came down with a rather harsh fever, he had told me that he would never again believe that word when it came to my own health, and I accepted that.

I headed downstairs with him, happy that, for the moment, I wasn't needed anywhere and could instead hide in Baker Street with Holmes. I wanted nothing more then to be near him for as long as possible, but he instead stated he needed to speak with some people, and asked if I would want to come along on his venture. I declined, not wanting to impose on him, and especially not when I knew it would be questions about the notes I received. I didn't want him to continue either, not when such a threat had come up. It wasn't so much my own safety but his that I worried about. What if, in the end, they harmed him instead of me? I wished nothing of the sort to happen, and could not think of it without feeling physically ill.

I sat down hard in my chair, Holmes' hand on my shoulder as I put a hand to my forehead, wishing I didn't feel so.

"You look pale, Watson," he muttered, kneeling near me and his eyes worried yet again, "and very ill."

I let out a small sigh. "I'll be fine," I muttered, "I've not been sleeping well, and these notes have not been helping."

"I heard. You've taken a sleeping draught two nights in a row, and when you were recovering from your wound and had even more frequent nightmares, you never took it so many times." I glared at him, wishing in this instance he was not so observant. "Is it just this, Watson, or some other reason that gives you nightmares?"

I looked away, to the fire and the warmth it was giving that I couldn't feel deeper then the top part of my skin. "I am still recovering from two years of being alone, and of receiving those notes with no one but myself to care for it, or at least no one but myself to turn to in such matters. I could not turn to Lestrade, for it would become a police investigation and I couldn't afford such a scandal if it broke. Even if I turned it over as a friend, he might at one point have to turn it into and investigation, and again I could not allow that." I didn't wish to point out that learning I had such a relationship could possibly damage Holmes' own reputation, and at the time it was under fire from Moriarty's brother. I couldn't put him at stake, not when it was my sin and never his.

His hand was unwelcome, but I had no strength, both mentally and physically, to shrug it off. "My dear chap," he sighed, then stood, patting my good shoulder, "I do not care what they threaten you with. You are the most decent and worthy man I have ever met, and anyone who thinks otherwise will answer to me for it. I am and I will always be your friend."

_And if you know the truth, what then? _"Thank you Holmes."


	4. Chapter 4

-Holmes-

As I left our rooms, commenting to Mrs. Hudson about Watson's state and his need for good food and comfort, then encountering Wiggins and having him not only send the Irregulars out in search of the men in question and any information about them, but also for at least one to watch the house with eagle eyes. Watson's safety and comfort thus ensured, I left to search for the two men.

I had not realize how…hurt was the word, for I could not bring myself to call it _damaged_…Watson truly was, and how much more these notes were making him. I decided to stop by and see my brother when I was done speaking to the others on my list, mostly to demand more information about Watson's status when Mycroft should've been watching over him. I asked one little thing from my brother, and that I would scare Watson so badly he could faint! Faint! My poor Watson, how I wished he had been spared this fate, and now more then ever I wished to put a stop to these notes. Truth or not, they did not change the fact that Watson was, perhaps, the only friend I should have who would understand me, stand up to me, and even be able to convince me to stop something. That he had such power over me and had no idea of it was something I should have never thought possible, as others would've used their power over me in more ways then I cared to think.

Watson never did, though, instead only exercising some when he wished me to get better, or eat…he always used it as a friend, or my physician, but never for any other reason. I had accepted that he disliked my casual use of cocaine and the dark moods that often heralded my usage of the drug, and if he had any chance, he would pull me out of Baker Street for a walk and to see about the people around. If he had a case, no matter how small, he would try to bring it to me in order to keep me busy, and I doubt he allowed me to read his stories just so he could hear me belittle them as often as I did! No, he wanted me to at least see his works, to see how he'd turned my cases into romantic works of fiction…not the best written but good for the stories in a sense.

His power was known to me by then, and I disliked having anyone having power over me, even if it was a friend, and perhaps it was because of that which I insulted some of his works and observations, hoping he would leave me alone.

I should've thanked Miss Mor—Mrs. Watson for taking him away, but I never could, for after he'd left, I found that I wanted him back. Like a child who tossed the toy into a deep trunk then dug through it and found the wanted item stuck, I wanted Watson back and did what I could to bring him back without tearing him apart, but at least once that didn't work, and he had to choose his wife over me. I regretted my treatment of him, but at the time also despised that he still held such sway over me when my own brother couldn't stop me or change my habits with a look as Watson could, or even make me change my tone with a client from just a slight expression. His expressive face was one I cared to look at when I could during an interview, and even afterwards, away from the client or while on the case, he always stated the right questions, the ones that _needed _to be answered, while pointing out the simplest of facts that my mind often overstepped. Mycroft couldn't do that. Mycroft doesn't seem to command my attention by his questions, innocent or not. While I worry over Mycroft's health when I do learn if he's ill (which is few times), I was ready to leave all of the East and to hell with Moran when I learned that Watson almost lost his mind at my loss, so much so he conjured my image up and had to deal with a secondary loss.

I found my string cut short, as neither of the men had been seen picking up the paper, and stopped in the Yard to ask Lestrade about the mystery that Watson had been part of shortly before his breakdown. Lestrade had seemed annoyed by the question, as if it was my fault (I was disinclined to argue with him) and explained the case. He asked about the reason for my question, and I stated that someone was threatening Watson, but he didn't wish for it to be a police matter because it was of a sensitive nature.

Lestrade nodded. "Of course, Mr. Holmes, I'm glad to know that you're helping him on this. I'd be happier to not hear that anyone would hurt the Doctor, though."

I decided that there are only so many ways I could've both thanked, apologized, and told Lestrade to mind his own business in one sentence, instead bidding him a good day and heading over to visit Mycroft.

* * *

Mycroft let out a sigh as I asked my question, having not reached the actual notes or problem I came for some help with, but instead starting with Watson and what had happened in the Wisteria Lodge case. "I understand the concern now, Sherlock, but truth be told I didn't realize how hurt he was until you mentioned it just now. I knew he was grieving, and that his wife's loss only deepened the blow, but the work with Lestrade kept him occupied enough, and sadly my own work stopped me from noticing what I should've." He glanced at me oddly. "Why did this come up? Surely nothing more has appeared to harm him."

I handed over both notes, watching as my brother read them and gave off perhaps the most disgusted look I had ever seen him give.

"And he's had others?"

"At least three or four, all stating that they knew of a probable, deep friendship with someone while in India that might or might not be mistaken for something else, and all at times that could hurt him, if not physically then mentally, and that, right now, is far worse."

Mycroft nodded, listening while I gave what I had and examining the paper before letting out a rush of air that sounded more like a growl then anything else. "You might as well state what these could mean, if proof was given."

"There _is _no proof," I said, amazed at how angry I became at the thought. If there was, Watson would be taken away from me, and I wouldn't have it! I would not toss him away so casually, as I had before with his wife, and again at Reichenburg Falls. I had him back and he needed time to heal, which I fully intended to give him, with cases and stories to publish, being at my side and helping me solve these crimes for commoners and kings alike.

Mycroft glanced at me, as if gauging that reaction to the notes, and added, "_If, _Sherlock, _if_, and I have few doubts that it's more then simply conjecture and fallacies on their part, and as such they wish to use it against the poor man for some slight, or perceived slight. I am worried about the warning…if they do indeed follow through with it, you or the Doctor could be in serious trouble."

"I know," I said, "but I _must _find them before that can come to pass."

He nodded, taking the second, less incriminating one. "I shall see what I can find through my channels, both about this Harrison fellow as well as who might have been contacted or knew about it. In the meantime, I suggest you either find another place for Watson to be, or fortify Baker Street against an assault."

"It will have to be Baker Street," I said, "and thank you, brother."

"Sherlock," the voice was quiet and I turned to look at him, waiting. "_If _it is true, proof or not…you would not turn him out, would you?"

I narrowed my eyes at him as he asked the question, and he smiled after I remained silent. "Of course. I don't think there will ever be proof, or at least, none that will make a court. Good day, Sherlock."

I nodded to him, happy for that one win of the many losses, before heading back to Baker Street, stopping when a carriage came up and Mrs. Hudson appeared, her frantic and disheveled nature speaking volumes before she even spoke, handing me the note that made my heart skip beats and I knew made my face turn pale.

_He shall pay for his indiscretions against us._


	5. Chapter 5

-Watson-

My head hurt, and behind me I heard two people talking in low voices, though I couldn't make out the words just yet. Despite wanting to open my eyes and move, I found my hands restrained behind me by something that felt like police derbies, and a sudden shiver that went through my body as I woke made realize I was deprived of my jacket, waistcoat, and shoes, allowing the cold floor to feel even colder. The voices have stopped and one leaves through a door behind me as I slowly open my eyes, trying to remember exactly how I'd gotten here.

I had been eating breakfast, Mrs. Hudson hovering until I finished. When she was done and I started to read the newspaper, but stopped when I heard the door and what I thought was a muffled cry. I knew I had gotten something to defend myself, and met the intruder in the hall. I had gotten him to the stairs when his companion appeared, holding a knife to Mrs. Hudson's throat. I gave up quickly, allowing myself to be taken to the waiting cab and praying that they didn't harm her when one hit me upside the head, more then likely to hide where we were going. I could only hope that Mrs. Hudson was not here as well, and that they, at least, did not harm her.

There was the sound of something being poured into a glass and the voice, one I recognized from the attack earlier, said, "So you're awake."

I turned a little, getting a larger view of the room I was in. I was facing a wall with a few types of restraints and a cat-o-nine tails, and behind me was a small table, this one also holding some types of restraints, and beyond that a bed with rings for what I had to guess was securing people to it. I didn't like the implications of this.

The man was holding a glass with amber liquid in it, and walked forward, turning me over with his boot so that I now lay on my back and hands. I blinked at him as he knelt down near me, touching one side of my head that hurt and giving me a smirk when I winced at the pain. "Got yourself hit pretty good, didn't ya?" He moved to moving some of my hair away from my forehead, I pulling my head away as he laughed, drinking a little of the liquid. "Well, it's not like there's anything you can do now. He'll be here soon, and said he'd take care of you well." He went back to rubbing my hair despite my attempts to move away. "I wonder if he'll let me try you out."

I turned my back to him, hoping he'd leave me alone to my thoughts. I did not like the attention or his mild taunts, nor did I like what he was implying.

I was turned back roughly, wincing as he pulled my left shoulder too hard. He glared at me, downing the rest of the liquid and putting it on the nearby table. "Oh, you don't like to be touched, eh?"

I remained silent, as I had no real choice, and he moved me to a sitting position, holding me up yet again by my hurting shoulder and tightening his grip when I tried to move away. "You'd best get used to it. He told me you're like the others we find, the ones who always flirt and show off, the ones who make us and others break our vows." His empty hand moved down my side and reached my hips, going lower as a hungry and dangerous look came into his eyes. "I bet this arse has turned a bunch of people, as sweetly as any pretty girl on the streets would."

"Sanders," a cold voice stopped him, pushing me to the ground and making me let out a small grunt of pain.

"Sir! I…I'm sorry, I mean…"

"Sanders, leave."

With a scathing glance at me, the man left, leaving me with a much colder-looking man, his eyes so pale they were gave the illusion that he was blind, his hair white-blond and stark against his pale skin, but for all this he was what had to be considered an Adonis of men. Unlike Sanders of earlier, who had a plain look to him, his hair and outfit allowing him to probably blend in anywhere, this one was not easy to forget.

He moved over to where I was, looking down on me instead of kneeling near me, and then glaring back at the closed door. "He has only been on the program a few weeks, so I suppose he is allowed some…faults…but you, I fear, is far too great a temptation."

I had heard of such things, though I never took stock in them: groups of former deviants or those with odd sexual habits or tastes who joined together in pact, stating they would help each other to stay on the given path of a healthy lifestyle. While other such groups were appearing and seemed to help out for other such ailments, such as extensive drink or drug-use, I had not thought it would help for something that could be human nature, other then introducing you to someone else who was like you.

I stayed silent as he moved away, putting the alcohol and glass in a different area before walking back towards me, "I take it you realize that I know all about what you and Harrison did together, while he was recovering in India." He knelt and removed the gag, standing and walking back to the table and bed nearby, asking, "Do you deny it?"

I forced myself to sit up, wincing at the pain in my wrists before I said, "Why should I? You obviously believe the worst already."

The man turned to glare at me. "Don't seek to patronize me. Harrison and I wrote, as we both pledged to keep the other from returning to the deviant nature which held us once. He wrote me while in India, saying that he had been forced back into that unnatural lust, that because of one man and his advances, he could not hold back his evil nature. Because of you, John Watson, my friend failed in his duty and was tempted."

I looked over at the man, wishing to stand and face him rather then look up at him. "As I said, I cannot say anything to defend myself as you've already decided I'm guilty. I can say that I didn't mean to hurt Harrison in any w--."

The man crossed the room and landed a solid hit to my face, forcing me back to the floor again, my ears ringing from the force of it.

"Shut up!" he yelled, his face turning from cold to fury and back again that for a moment I thought I had imagined it, the spots in front of my eyes causing me to shake my head clear. "It doesn't matter what you say, though. The truth is written, and now you're friend has the same information."

I felt myself freeze at the pronouncement, looking up at him as he smiled at me, a cruel smile that made me freeze. "Indeed. I've sent half the papers to Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and explained that you will be punished for your indiscretions against Harrison. Once he knows the truth, I doubt the great detective will attempt to find you, unless it is to bring you to justice."

* * *

-Holmes-

My own home gave me no news, and the Irregular which had been watching the house couldn't tell me exactly where the cart had gone, as it entered into a part of town that none of them wished to go, as there had been numerous attacks upon young boys there, and even I warned them against entering. I knew that if I had pushed him to enter, the boy would've, but when I found Watson and he found out, he would be very put out that I had endangered an Irregular so, and would've said he could've waited a few days at most instead of putting the poor lad in danger.

I thanked the boy, giving him his wages and going back upstairs to pace. Mrs. Hudson had wanted to bring in the police, but I knew that if it became public knowledge, then Watson's reputation would be on the line, and I couldn't risk that. He was hurting enough without someone insulting him for his choice of partners!

And I doubted that such things were true. I had at least one friend among the so-called deviants, from my time living in mild squaller before gaining the apartment in Baker Street, and perhaps—

I stopped as I picked up the envelope that had been placed in the hall, knocked over from when Watson had been obviously attacking the man. I wondered at why he didn't grab his revolver before I remembered it was upstairs, and he never could be sure where mine was…

It was addressed to me, and I opened it slowly, carefully, remembering the spring-box and other such traps from other cases that had been the downfall of others, and had tried to trap me as well.

I was happy to see that it was, instead, just a grouping of papers, most of which I could tell were over ten years old, and which made me frown. If the mention of Harrison, who had been in India, was the reasoning for them tormenting and kidnapping Watson, then these would, perhaps, shed some light upon the matter.

I opened and read the first one, noting the date before I continued, though I was annoyed to find that this paper made no mention of the person it was addressed to, simply calling the person 'Tu Quoque'.

'_You too'_, I translated as I read, 'though normally it's 'ad hominem tu quoque'…_against the man, you too_.

I stopped halfway through the papers, setting them far away from my reach and taking time to rearrange a few things while underneath I attempted to quell my rage and the urge to burn the papers, to rend them and their writer apart, though I knew I could not and would've settled for his soul, for some piece of him, anything! To say such things about Watson! To say that he would force (_Force! _Watson was the kindest soul around, and couldn't even bring himself to lock away my cocaine when he knew he could) himself in such a way upon someone, to say that he—

I finally grabbed my coat and hat, on secondary thought grabbing the papers, and considering what I knew. The cart had disappeared around a specific district, on I knew to hold deviants of some sorts. Something had happened which increased the molestation of young boys in the area, so much so I had warned the Irregulars against going _near _the area when before I had found that they were well-fed and taken care of by some of the people there. The boys had relented to only one area, where the attacks were the worst and where there was a specific shortcut towards the docks that they usually took.

It was near a house where one informant was, and if anyone could shine light upon this subject and help me find Watson, it was he.


	6. Chapter 6

-Watson-

My initial shock faded as the man moved towards the door and, despite my shaking and shame at the idea of Holmes learning of my true nature, of possibly deciding that he couldn't room with such a person, I knew that he would strive to find me. He had sworn to ensure my safety, and after our adventure to capture Moran, had all but sworn to ensure I was never harmed in such a way again. I had wanted him to ask me to move in, and he had only paused in the offering because, he admitted later, he was afraid I would be angry at him for telling Mycroft and not him, for letting me suffer those three years.

I couldn't be angry. I would have suffered all that hell had to offer if it meant seeing him again.

"You don't know Holmes," I said quietly, getting him to look at me when he was at the door. "Even if he knows of a person doing something that could possibly make them swing, or be guilty in the eyes of the law, if he believes in them then he will help. I am his friend, one of his only ones. Even if this destroys that friendship, he _will _find me, if only to punish _you_."

The fury returned, and the door was wrenched open, the man saying, "Believe all you want, it will not help you. You will not be absolved of your deeds, and I shall ensure you are shown what pains you gave Harrison before you left like a coward."

He slammed the door, leaving me alone to sit up again, this time moving to one wall and using it to stand. I would rather be either on the chair or the bed then on the floor, and wondered why I was given even some freedom of movement until I heard a click that signaled me being locked in. I moved closer to the door and heard more then two voices outside, as well as a mention of a 'gathering'.

So even if I got my hands in front of me or free, I would have to deal with a locked door and a gathering of like-minded men who wished to punish me.

I sat down and wished for the amber liquid and that glass, in the very least to calm my nerves, and possibly to stop my thoughts from wandering back to Holmes. When he found out, what would he think of me? Would this mean the end of our friendship, mean that he would toss me out of Baker Street and never have anything to do with me again? I knew that such a fate would inevitably kill me, as Holmes' death almost had, and I hoped it wouldn't come to that, even if it meant he looked at me with disgust every time I was in the same room.

I pushed my thoughts from that line and instead tried to think of what might happen, though I disliked the idea I knew I had to prepare mentally for it. I had seen a few people during the war who couldn't handle what had happened to them, and even in London and elsewhere there were a few cases of people being forced that I had to treat. I had not spoken to Holmes about what other bruises that Mrs. Stapleton had suffered at the hands of her atrocious husband, knowing that despite his mistrust of the fairer sex he held them in esteem and believed that anyone who harmed them to be the most despicable coward, and Dr. Mortimer had been more then happy to instruct Sir Henry on their year-long trip to calm his nerves about what could happen, should they both decide to wed and she not recovered from the earlier treatment either.

I knew that it would be painful, that most of the shame came from people finding their bodies reacting despite it, and that emotionally it was very hard on many, as they were rendered helpless in the situations. I had to rely on my medical knowledge to get me through it, should it happen.

I looked up at the ceiling, collecting my thoughts. Holmes would come, letters or no. I would survive this, for I had survived worse pain and suffering. If I was lucky, Holmes would keep me as a friend, even allow me to stay at Baker Street with him. If I was very lucky, he would find me before that man appeared again and started with my…punishment, as he would call it. And by far, if I was very, very lucky, Holmes would find me and accept what I was, perhaps even—

No. That was far less believable then him finding me so soon, though it had happened before. But I'd never been in the hands of those who wished me such harm.

The door opened, causing me to stand as the cold-looking man entered, followed by two average-sized men, both of which looked me over as if I was a side of rather tempting beef. I took a small fighter's stance as the cold-man waved. "I believe one at a time will work for now. It doesn't matter where."

The man on the right moved forward, grinning and reaching for me before I kicked out, sending him to the ground howling at his hurt leg while the other went after me, fairing only a little better but able to trip me, sending me to the floor again as the other stood, kicking me in the side and moving away with a few curses as the other laughed, I curled up against the pain in my side and considering kicking at the man again when I had the chance.

My cold-faced host glared at them both, causing the one who had floored me to stand and move away a little. "I said to take him, not play with him."

I glared at him as he motioned the two again, both approaching me with caution this time, and such that it didn't allow me to get in a good kick this time, the two grabbing my legs and pulling me rather painfully across the floor towards the table.

One let go long enough to grab one of the restraints that seemed to be multi-purpose and, after taking off my socks attached them to my ankles, despite my attempts to kick both of them off. I was able to land a solid hit on the one who had gotten my ankles restrained, causing him to fall down hard a little ways away as the other pulled me up, forcing me to bend over the table as the one I kicked growled out something like a curse.

I struggled as the one holding me down started to undo my pants. Some part of me screamed for Holmes to come, to suddenly appear and all would be right, but—

"Sir! Mr. Stone, sir!"

I waited as everything seemed to pause, a man outside talking quickly before the cold man, Mr. Stone, said, "Later."

"But…"

"Lloyd's missing, and someone suspects that tavern down the way. We'll deal with them, then with him."

I nearly let out a breath I'd been holding as I felt the man's body leave mine, though I began to worry again when I was pulled up with him.

"We can't leave him to walk around, though," he muttered, nuzzling my cheek as I moved my head as far away as I could. With a nod from Stone, the two men cuffed my hands in front and instead strung me up to a hook that almost was too tall for me to reach the ground, linking the other restraints to the ground before I was once again left alone.

I now let out my breath. I still had time. Holmes could come at any moment, or more help could come as well.

Either way, now I had more time to be lucky.


	7. Chapter 7

-Holmes-

If you looked at the building twice, you would be hard-pressed to know if it was a tavern or a home. Most might even think it was abandoned, and I was happy to know that it wasn't, and that the person inside could possibly know something about this group, or at least have a way to point me in the right direction.

I entered through the back door that I had a key to, and was stopped by an arm and a familiar voice. "I hate to break it to you, Sherlock, but I'm _busy_."

"I'm here for information, Gilbert, not to be toyed with," I growled back, shoving the arm down and forcing the man to face me. He had his hair cut short and was, in all truth, a rather androgynous man with dark hair and light eyes, though his speech and nature was very over-the-top as far as being a deviant went, and it was obvious he couldn't fool anyone to his true nature.

"I meant for information as well," he said, looking me over then frowning. "Who died?"

I glared at him and he held up his hands. "I will help you out, but first we're dealing with _trash_. We caught the guy your little Irregulars had to be worried about, and were trying to decide if we should let the police find him or not. At least two of the lovely constables are all up for finding him in the Thames tomorrow and taking credit, but the man's being rather annoying about it. Plus he's part of that Fallacies group."

The name caught my attention. "Fallacies?"

"Yeah, they're a group of guys who try to be straight through some odd pact. They have names like 'Non-Sequiter' and the like."

I grabbed Gilbert by the shoulder, shoving one of the papers towards him. He blinked, read it, and blinked again. "This reads like straight bondage, where'd you get it?"

"One of the Fallacies," I muttered, "I want to talk to him."

"Should I be worried?"

"I'll give you all ideas on how to either make it look like an accident or make it so, if they do find the body, they can't trace it back here."

"I knew I liked you for something besides your good-looks."

* * *

Perhaps it was just my look, or perhaps somehow Gilbert had made a minor gesture that caused the group to part like that. Perhaps it was both, but either way, the group parted in my wake and I walked up to the man who had, it seemed, accosted not only my Irregulars but also knew where Watson might be. If he knew, then I would get it from him. If not, he would take me to the most likely area, or to someone who _did _know.

Either way, I would find out.

More then a few of them seemed to realize this, and moved accordingly, at least one or two who moved up still wearing what appeared to be dog collars or were holding the leashes as I got up, the man glaring at me then shrinking back instead when he seemed to realize that I was not here to _discuss _his fate.

Gilbert stood on top of the bar, looking out and then down at the paperwork, motioning to me. "May I?"

I glared at him and he gave me a smile that said he thought my threats, silent as they were, to be empty. "This is a letter that my dear Mr. Holmes got from someone. It is a degenerate, horrible piece of smut about his roommate and best friend. Shall we hear some of it, to tell if this is the work of some Fallacy?"

A roar went up, for I could not call it a cheer, as it was too full of bloodlust and anger, I glaring at the man as he cringed and Gilbert read on. "'Oh, woe am I, for there is a foul incubus here, a tempter of men and he had ensnared me!' An incubus, huh? Wouldn't he go after all the women then?"

A small grouping of laughing from some of the girls at the other side, only a few in the front, as I walked around the man while Gilbert read on.

"'Oh such a foul yet lovely person there is on this Earth and in so many pits of hell! His name is John Watson, a surgeon who was lucky enough to get out of Afghanistan with a shot to his left arm and another to his leg, leaving him immobile for the most part but too stubborn to admit it. He is handsome, and has forced me into having that foul and evil lust that I and you, Hominem, swore to never have again.' _Ad hominem_, indeed!" A larger laugh from this as I paced, growing impatient as Gilbert skipped more of the description of the 'horrid feelings', 'feeling sorry for myself', and the like before he said, "Oh, the smut part, of course!" He looked down at the captive. "I wonder, do you read this and touch yourself, hmm? Bring yourself to glory, or do you ask those little street Arabs to do it for you, since you can't even bring yourself to like the looks of a man barely eighteen!"

"That's not true, you depraved--," the man started as I stepped closer, getting him to flinch at my approach and heavy walking stick that I was casually moving about, testing against my hand. "I…I never asked them boys for nothing of the sort."

"You know, half of them are employed by Holmes here," Gilbert said, passing off the pages as one person laughed, another seemed shocked at what they read and still another simply glanced then passed it off, "and that Johnny Watson is the friend and compatriot of him as well. You're well up shit creek and long ago lost the paddle, I only let Holmes join in 'cause his friend is missing, and unless you give us the location of your friends, I don't think we'll take kindly to you, anymore then we were going to beforehand. And I know Holmes. He'll hurt you in more ways then one, and none of them _have _to be physical."

Gilbert did know me well in that respect. He had been a client twice before my move to Baker Street, and I had to help him to make people leave him and others alone. It had worked, and I'd been a friend to the group, as well as paid well, for one of the first times. That Gilbert had often tried to flirt with me on the assignment had not gotten past me, though I did wish he hadn't been so blatant about it, and especially not in front of Lestrade that one time, though both had admitted that Gilbert flirted with _every _man who seemed sanguine about his nature. I had accepted that and moved on, keeping him as one of my many contacts, but right now I was grating. I wanted to find Watson, and that we had a man who would have harmed the Irregulars as well…that was only an added bonus.

I turned to him, considering what to do. He did not write those notes that Watson had received which upset him so, nor did he write this letter that had now made it's way back to Gilbert…that man was dead years ago, and the other was, as of now, outside my power.

But I had sworn the one who did write those notes would have both his hands broken, and suffer such a hell that all the demons would shy away from me, if I ever went to such place.

But this man before me knew where Watson was, or at least where the man who wrote the notes was, and I wanted that information. I would get that information, and make the man suffer well for scaring the Irregulars in such a way. They had enough problems without having to worry of such things when they weren't old enough either.

"So what we have here is someone who doesn't believe he's done wrong, and who knows where something is that Holmes wants it," Gilbert said as he took back the papers and looked back at me as I stood in front of the man that was now cowering in my presence. "I do wonder what this will turn out like."


	8. Chapter 8

-Watson-

My arms ached as I attempted to keep some of my weight off them, not wanting to strain my shoulder anymore then I had to, for I knew that it would take my left shoulder longer to heal then my right. I winced as the pain shot through my arm again and I heard footsteps coming towards the room I was imprisoned in. I hoped for some interruption as had happened last time, or for it to be something else besides what was to come. I would even take a beating over the idea of being violated.

I held in a wince as the door opened and Stone walked in, closing the door and walking around me. "The others have gone to see about saving Lloyd from the other deviants nearby." He looked up and down as I kept my face stoic, trying to keep my face from turning red at the scrutiny. I never enjoyed being looked over in any way, feeling very insecure about my body or being watched in such a way. When I had been with Harrison, I hated it but he didn't seem to care, enjoying my discomfort while also doing what he could to try and make me feel better. Mary had enjoyed looking me over, touching my chest hair, but I had never felt very happy with it, especially when I gained some weight and felt very sedentary (she called it 'well-fed' and 'active'). Two years had made me too lean, and now I felt very much like I was being judged as Stone stopped in front of me, looking up and down before unbuttoning my shirt and moving it aside, revealing my shoulders a little and then looking back over the exposed skin. "You only have one scar."

I remained silent, though I wondered if Harrison had been so stressed about things that he said something wrong about my scars.

He traced the pattern of it, looking to the right shoulder then back to me. "I can see some of how you might affect people, though you are not very handsome." He looked along, tracing a small line down my side and making me look away as his hand reached my abdomen, "No, not very handsome at all. But you are somewhat interesting, I suppose."

I glared at him. "If I was so handsome _or _interesting, Harrison wouldn't have sought companionship elsewhere." There, I'd said what I had believed for a long while. I did enjoy his company, his companionship, but to learn later that he may have had others, that he wrote only of me and therefore set these people upon me, that he may even ruin my chance to stay friends with Holmes, I found that suddenly I only had some fond memories of him. Everything else was stripped away and I realized simply that he used me, and blamed me for his perceived weakness.

I winced at the slap that hit me, Stone glaring at me with barely-controlled fury. "He mentioned only you, and you were the only one who tempted him! He wouldn't lie!"

I glanced at him and dived into what was obviously hostile waters. Silence would not help me, and even if taunts ended up infuriating him into something drastic, I was tired of this anyway. "He did. Yes, I initiated it, but there was no forcing. I gave him the chance to leave and he didn't take it, but he led everything. He asked and when I refused, he still tried to force _me_, not--."

A hard fist stole my breath, and I read cold fury on Stone's face as he walked over to the one side, grabbing a long rod before coming over to face me again, forcing my head up before hitting me again.

"You forced him," he said simply, as if he could only believe that, "you, an unimpressive specimen, a being who is of no consequence," he struck me hard with the rod, stopping what would've been a protest, "who cannot keep anything," another blow, as if he would ingrain such things into my head through violence, "forced him as you forced the detective to keep you on."

I was able to connect to his upper thigh with one of my knees, and was hit with even more force for my troubles. How dare he suggest I forced Holmes into anything! If anything, I—

The rod struck my head, sending my thoughts to scattered areas of my mind and causing me to lose perhaps a minute, maybe more, for I awoke to the man moving away from me, the rod still in his hand and looking over me before down at the object in hand. I felt blood trickling down the side of my face and hoped I would not require stitches for that as he moved away, looking over some of the other instruments nearby before turning back to me.

I was unsure of what he was doing until I felt his hand on my now-bruised abdomen again, this time moving lower as he muttered, "You continually force people, and never seem forced yourself. I think I'll change that."

* * *

-Holmes-

I shouldn't have been surprised that it took only the threat of violence to gain the location of the house, a few blocks from this one, and after taking the papers back from Gilbert, I started to leave when I saw a small grouping of men heading for the area I had just left. I paused only long enough to alert a nearby constable before heading away, hurrying when I was out of sight and praying that I wasn't too late. Too many things could happen in the course of a few hours and I would hate myself if I found—

I pushed all the negative thoughts away as I approached the house, entering through a back door that they apparently had forgotten to lock on their trip. I found more signs of blackmail and decided that I would probably turn the bulk of the group to the police while keeping the main tormentor for my own purposes. A man could survive on dirty water for a while…access to Watson's medical books had helped expand my knowledge of what a human could endure.

I made my way upstairs, hearing what sounded like wood against flesh that made me want to hurry but also forced me to stay my hand. I removed my own gun slowly, and found the open door as I heard something being muttered, too far away to be heard as I looked in.

Watson hung in the center of the room, blood down the side of his face and bruises starting to form on his exposed torso. A white-blond man was touching him, a rod with blood on it in one hand. The room was made for torture and violations, and I would not stand to have this man hurt Watson in such a way.

I readied the gun, happy at the audible sound as well as my distance from the man, making it impossible for him to stop me should I decide to shoot, though if I was off only a little…

"You will release him," I growled as the man froze, "or I shall take great pleasure in ensuring you cannot use your legs again."

He spun, realizing his folly as I shot, hitting his leg and causing him to yell out, dropping the rod. I kicked it away and used the butt of the gun with such force he fell and lay very still, blood coming from his head as I quickly searched for a key to the handcuffs I saw on Watson.

My first priority was ensuring Watson was alright. Though barely conscious, he was alive and for that I was grateful. I did not want to think of what might have happened had I been a few minutes later.

I moved Watson to the bed, and the cuffs to the blond man before the door banged open, and I turned then let out a breath at the sight of the ruffled but otherwise unharmed Gilbert.

"Damnit Sherlock!" he said, looking down at the now-stirring man I suddenly had the burning desire to kick. "Damien Stone? I'm not that surprised, I knew he was unstable, but…well…" he looked over at me, then Watson before saying, "Do you want me to make myself scarce?"

"It would help."  
"I take it you'll probably hurt the man a good amount? Probably break every bone in his hands?"

"The thought occurred to me."

Gilbert nodded. "I would do that too if he hurt my friend in such a way. I have to say, though, it is always fun to see a person who's been killed in a gaol. Have you seen one?"

"I have."

"Let me rephrase that. Have you seen one who harms people like he possibly did to your friend there?"

I bristled at the thought as Gilbert held up his hands. "Lloyd's going to be lucky if he makes it out, as everyone has kids and word'll get around. This one…well…"

I looked over at where Watson lay, my conscious divided. I wanted to take revenge for what had been done to him, but if I took it, I would have to leave him alone. I had read an account of the two cases he'd taken up, both clients thinking I was alive and he, instead, helping them as I would. In one, a boy had died from being attacked and getting a burst appendix that later resulted in pneumonia where there shouldn't have been. Watson could be so hurt, and I wouldn't be able to help him if I waited too long.

"There is evidence downstairs. Don't bring Watson into this."

"Of course. That would mean I'd have to bring _you_ into this, and I don't want that." Gilbert pulled the man, Stone, out of the room with some noise and what sounded like whispered threats as I grabbed the chair nearby, seating myself near the bed to get a quick look at Watson before I took him back to Baker Street for treatment. He had at least two places where blows had landed on his head, and more then I cared to count on his torso. I pulled out a handkerchief to stop the blood on his head wound (he was forever telling me that such things bled more then most others, it was just their nature) and then trying to discover if I should wake him, in case of a possible concussion.

I leaned forward, whispering his name in the hopes he'd wake just by my voice alone, and almost afraid to touch him for fear I'd cause him more hurt.

Eyes fluttered open, a little unfocused but happily I could see that he knew my face. I gave him a smile and risked a touch to his right arm. "Oh Watson, I'm so sor--."

With a sudden speed I could not categorize, Watson's lips touched mine, silencing me in my surprise at the action. His lips tasted coppery and cracked, but were otherwise soft and I suddenly found myself in the odd position of having not enough blood to think, and a flush spreading both above and below.

He almost fell back, but I caught his head gently, frowning as I saw he was now unconscious and realizing I needed to get him to Baker Street and quickly.

* * *

I will not recount how grateful I was for the hansom that awaited me outside, nor the astonished look that Mrs. Hudson gave me as I came in, carrying Watson and yelling for her to get a doctor. I cannot recount them clearly enough, for my mind was too caught up in ensuring Watson would be alright as well as wondering why he kissed me. I had an understanding, from my brief engagement to Aggie, that I was a decently handsome man and that most would care to kiss me. I had somewhat lied to Watson about the rival…it was more that he wished for us both, as he caught me once alone and I had to use a small amount of violence for him to understand what 'no' meant. My talks to Aggie went along much the same line, teaching her to defend herself with more ease, and she, in turn, kissed me and helped me know more about the household. But I had not understood _why _I was kissable and she had laughed at me for it, not properly giving me a good reason.

Now Watson had kissed me, and his kisses had affected me in quite a different way then Aggie's had. I don't think there was enough blood in the human body for such a reaction, nor why I had gotten such a one.

I remained at Watson's beside, pondering the question. He knew it was me, and yet he still went ahead with it. I could not think of him in such a manner yet now…

I was interrupted by the arrival of the doctor, who after learning of the circumstances thanked me for the information and promptly threw me out, locking the door and warning me that such a full examination would be easier 'without an audience'.

Angry and worried, I headed into the sitting room, surprised to find a note from Mycroft there. I read through it, finding that Harrison had more then one unresolved issue with the Army before his death, and that it appeared his friend, Stone, had been fighting a case (and lost) over Harrison's character. The case, it seemed, had ended shortly before the notes began.

Stone had blamed Watson for allowing Harrison's true character to appear, and thus he had taken his revenge.

But how far? I shuddered to think of it, my anger at Stone growing. If I had shot any higher he would've bleed to death, at least…

I do believe I made a record for moving, for I was out the door and halfway up the stairs when I heard Watson's door unlock and open, the other doctor appearing as I waited for his diagnosis.

"He'll be fine," he said, "there is some bruising but luckily his head wound didn't need any stitches, just a bandage. His shoulders showed some strain, and I gave him some pain medication to take for the next two days. He'll be better soon."

I had to guess, with no mention of anything else, that he had not been—

I thanked the doctor enthusiastically, getting more information about light food, rest, etc, and saw him to the door before I was back upstairs and at Watson's side again.

He had not been hurt in such a way. He would recover physically, and I would do what I could for him mentally, though some part of me wondered what _I _could do.

He would recover, and Stone would be imprisoned, possibly murdered while there. That thought alone gave me more comfort then I thought it normally could.

I let out a breath and brushed back some stray hair of Watson's, frowning as his head followed my hand, resting in it and nuzzling it a little. Did he always react so to my presence? I knew that just by entering the room and being near him, I could easily wake him from the deepest slumber, and had utilized it on more then one occasion when we first lived together. But he had never…

Good Lord, I do believe he just kissed my hand.

I considered removing my hand but instead left it, moving down along the unwounded side of his face as he slept on, removing it as he rested his head more on it then the pillow. Despite his frown, he remained still and during my thoughts that went on through the night, he was quiet and not bothered by any great nightmares, for which I was most grateful.

Watson, it seemed, had had a dalliance with Harrison while in India, but had not had anything of the sort after returning to England. Instead, he'd moved in with me, and later abandoned me for a medical practice and a wife. Now, it seemed, he cared for me in such a way that he would go to prison for it, or face great societal shame either way.

He kissed me twice, and I reacted more to it then I ever did to that poor girl Aggie. I was willing to commit murder for him, though I already knew that but he had yet to be awake or lucid enough to witness my reactions.

I needed to talk to Gilbert about this.


	9. Chapter 9

-Watson-

I was in bed for two days, and woke once to see Holmes by my side, watching me but also with a look in his eyes that said he was working on a problem. He had seen me and given me a warm quirk of a smile, one I always believed was directed only towards me and no one else, before explaining I had to rest and giving me some water. A little while later I got more pain medication and some soup for it before falling back to sleep.

I had not asked about the odd dream I'd had, where I'd seen him after hearing a sound of thunder and his worried eyes, a smile and for a second, I was back in my consulting room, and he had just appeared. I acted as I had wanted to then, and kissed him, willing him into existence and reality…

And I dreamed that he kissed me back before everything went dark.

I remember waking another time, not from pain or a nightmare but from some phantom sensation that I soon realized was that Holmes was no longer in the chair or in my room.

I sat up slowly, wincing briefly at some of the bruises before looking down on my own, evaluating that, indeed, I was recovering and luckily wouldn't have to worry so much about any scarring or anything besides simply a few bruises.

I stood a little shakily, considering to myself that a good soup or a grouping of sandwiches might improve my spirits greatly, and went to get my dressing gown as well as ensure that my bandage didn't need to be changed. Happily seeing that my wrists were not harmed despite the cuffs, I started to head downstairs, stopping as I heard Holmes' laugh, though it was the barking, quick sort he used only when amused by something he thought false, or something that was said without thought.

"It's not _that _funny, Sherlock," a male voice said, though it was almost too low for me to hear.

"It is, Gilbert, it is," I heard Holmes reply, "but honestly, I asked you here for advice, not to spout nonsense!"

I didn't hear the reply, and debated on if I should continue down and interrupt or stay where I was and try to listen.

"I doubt that very much," Holmes said, "Watson's not that sort."

I felt myself go still at the mention of my name.

"You're just being silly," Gilbert pointed out, "the evidence--."

"The evidence can go hang!"

I winced at the loudness of Holmes' voice and the emotion behind his remark. I have never really known Holmes to become so emotional concerning me and some part of me enjoyed that he would defend me.

"Your own evidence?"

His own?

"My own is of no consequence."

I heard what sounded like a snort. "That's funny, coming from you when your own can save kings or ruin them. You must face the facts, Sherlock."

I swallowed hard, debating on if I should move closer or further away.

"I did not ask you here to debate it, Gilbert."

"Oh please, I trust Harrison's writings more then your biographer's!"

"Watson _wouldn't do such a thing._"

I had never heard such an angry voice come from Holmes, and retreated out of my own fear for what could happen.

I did not hear what was said, and moved closer, close enough to hear Holmes' sigh. "So it is true, then."

I went back upstairs, sitting and trying to get my mind in order. He had sounded so let down, so saddened by the realization. Had he realized that I was a deviant…and he believed Harrison's letters, which apparently said I forced myself upon him? I hoped not, but I could not be sure, and that was perhaps even worse, that I once more misread Holmes…

A few minutes later, I heard the front door close and footsteps on the stairs, and tried to think of something to say as the door opened. For all my ways with words, I couldn't figure out anything as Holmes walked in, seating himself next to me. "How much did you hear, Watson?"

"I…enough, I suppose."

"If you are here and not downstairs, I believe it isn't." He looked me over. "You need to get something to eat, you've been asleep far too long and had me worried. Come, Mrs. Hudson will make you some soup."

I was about to protest, but he helped me up, his hands as gentle when holding me as they usually were, and lead me downstairs.

I cannot recall the soup, my sense of dread and the surreal aspect of the whole thing making it so that I don't recall that much past Holmes' gentle prodding at me to eat, then sit and listen to him play the violin, before he seated himself, I on the settee and resting a little.

"Mr. Stone was killed yesterday," he told me simply, "and the police are looking into it but have yet to discover why. His group was rounded up and are charged with varying degrees of deviancy and brawling, so they will not be a bother to us. My friend who was here, Gilbert, wished to speak to me about what dangers there were in going a specific course. He does not believe I know you as well as I should, and that some of Harrison's writings speak the truth."

I swallowed then looked over at him. "What does it say?"

He paused, leaning back in his own chair before saying, "Many things. I've had to read it through a few times, and I must say, that besides you, I can see at least two or three other men described under your name, which makes me wonder as to the validity of most of the contents. I would like the full story from you, though."

I couldn't lie, and perhaps if I was lucky I could keep him as a friend. He'd shown that despite my earlier omissions, despite what was written in Harrison's letters, he would save me and keep me on as…as what? I knew I could only find out by saying the truth and hoping for something good.

"Harrison and I were lovers," I stated bluntly, "We started as friends, I kissed him and…and he didn't tell, or react badly as others might have. We had a dalliance, and after I left I tried to stay in touch but never wrote, and neither did he. I am unsure if that was what caused the letters or not, nor did I know of them until just recently."

Holmes was quiet then asked, "Was there…anything that might have caused harm?"

I swallowed. "No. Just touching...I didn't wish to risk any more, and was quite scared of what could happen. I had seen one person who didn't have a tear from a…a rape…treated and it became infected. He was too proud to say it, and ended up dying. I was uncertain if I could keep the secret, or if I could deal with it. Harrison brought it up more then once, and I refused him each time."

Holmes was silent for a long moment before saying, "He did claim that it was reversed, that you forced him, though from the description alone I would have to guess it was another man."

I looked down at the carpet before me, concentrating on that and my hands as I heard Holmes shift in his chair. I had come to terms during the short imprisonment that Harrison didn't really care for me, at least not enough to protect me as he did the other two or three…perhaps that was his revenge on me for not giving in…though it had never been to—

"Holmes," I said quietly, "I…that is…" I flushed as I whispered, hearing his chair shift as he leaned in and feeling his presence grow close to me, "he didn't ask me to…to…he asked…"

Why was it so hard? I could be clinical, yet I couldn't. I could've just said it, but I had never been vulgar in front of Holmes and he had never been so to me unless he was in costume and wished to surprise me.

"He wished for it to be you, not he," Holmes supplied, to which I nodded, glad to not have to say anything.

"And you, wishing neither to hurt nor be hurt, refused him. For that, he wrote a letter saying you had not only seduced him, but forced him."

I closed my eyes, wishing I had not been so stupid…but Harrison had been nice, had been my friend when Murray had to return to the lines and I had been one of only a few people from my regiment, one of many who were waiting for orders back to the lines or back to England.

"Oh Watson," Holmes said, his voice all sympathy, the type that only he gives to me, "I am sorry."

"He was a friend first," I muttered, "and I was foolish. Young, hurt, and foolish."

Holmes moved in front of me, forcing me to look up as one hand clasped mine and another touched the side of my face. He gave me a half-quirk of a smile I so loved. "Perhaps…but we all are at one point, and I am only grateful that you came into my life and out of his, though I wish he had not tried to harm you in such a way."

I gave him my own smile. "Thank you, Holmes."

"I have one more question, and please, do not be scared."

I am no detective, but I had a clue as to what this was, and I felt his hand tighten a little around mine.

"I would never throw you out, nor would I end our friendship, which has kept me alive when more then one thing would think to destroy me. I only wish to hear, in your own words, what your feelings are for me."

I was shaking, fearful but his words before, as well as the hold, comforting as only Holmes could be, as well as the hand on my face, gently keeping me from falling forward or pulling away, forced me to swallow and say, "I…I have fallen in love with you, Holmes. I--."

His hand moved to my lips, and I had to reign in the urge to suck on his fingers. "You will not apologize for what is your nature, nor for finding me worthy of someone who can love so deeply. You know all my faults and weaknesses, know me perhaps a little better then even my brother would, and that is why I called Gilbert. I had to discover my own feelings for you. I could only do so by calculating, and moving forward. He believes some of the writings, and that you might indeed force me. My anger at the thought, my knowledge of your own characteristics, and my defense of you despite all he would say or was written, showed me that I would go far to defend you. I have read some romantic fiction, and know this is a case of love if ever there was one." He smiled fully at me, and I nearly lost myself, nearly kissed him there, but I swore I would let him start, swore that I wouldn't force the attention as I had on Harrison, on Mary if I think of it in such a way—

Holmes' lips are light, tasting of tobacco and something else I cannot identify properly, as my eyes are closed at the bliss and my brain is too foggy with it to really think straight.

"You never forced yourself upon anyone, Watson," he said, "I can read you as well as you read me. Harrison had every chance to deny you, to give you a sign he would not take such an advance, and instead sought to harm you. Mary, I could see in the coach, was brimming with a type of love for you and while I disliked the idea at first, I could see she did love you. You never forced a decision upon anyone."

I wanted to argue, but he kissed me again and I forgot what it was I was about to say. I wondered when he broke it off if it was on purpose, for I—

"Watson," he said, leaning in but not kissing me, his forehead touching mine lightly as his hands moved to either side of me, "none of it is your fault. How can I prove it to you?"

I blinked, wishing to kiss him but refraining. "I…I don't…"

Holmes smiled, moving back and tilting his head. "Oh my dear Watson, why do you believe yourself so inferior? I can only say so many times that you are the best friend anyone could ask for. Your friendship, your constant looks and forcing me into a sociable area when I wished nothing more then my seven percent solution and my black-mood solitude, the two cases you brought to me of such interesting proportions, all those helped save me from what would assuredly have been a short and very painful career. Had it not been the many thoughts of returning, of seeing you again, I would not have endured my three-year banishment from England. What Harrison said was all lies, every bit of it. He described you physically to a point but never with such praise as I would gladly do."

Holmes stood suddenly, letting out a laugh as he did. "Ah, I believe I have it. Come, we must go upstairs."

"…upstairs?"

"Yes, come along Watson, you first, I shall be there shortly."

* * *

-Holmes-

I picked up the small bottle of oil, in case things went along those lines, and thought. Gilbert probably was just jealous, and even if he wasn't, I had already confirmed that Watson wouldn't force someone. I also was sure that due to what had been said, he was certain he was pushing people into affection. I had to show him he wasn't, but I couldn't be sure as to how without really pushing him. Not the best choice, but one that I could hope to not regret. At least I knew my kisses disarmed him, and would give me more time to speak.

I made way up, happily seeing that Watson had taken off his dressing gown and was sitting on the bed, looking a little anxious as I removed my own, putting it on the chair I had been seated at for a few days before sitting next to him on the bed, rubbing his arm to try and calm him down.

He let out a breath as I moved closer, thinking that perhaps hugging him would be best.

I am not, by nature, a person who enjoys all the physical things in life. So long as both body and mind act as one, I can enjoy the game, as in boxing or single-stick. I had found with Aggie that one could plan a seduction and learn, but had to leave before I knew more, which I had found regrettable at the time. With Watson now, though, I found that I was quite happy to touch. I had learned that while I was not open to other people's touches, Watson's was most agreeable to me, so much so that I would probably pass more then a dozen doctors just so he could treat some minor ailment, or even major one.

I hugged him close, rubbing my hand along his back. "I will not do anything you don't want to, Watson."

"I know," he said, turning his head into my shoulder. I could all but feel his physical need to kiss, to love, but he was holding it back.

So I would have to unlock it. Very well then, I was up to the challenge, moving his head up with one hand so I could go back to kissing him. He was very nice to kiss, his lips softer now and his taste of the tea he had earlier. I suppose I would go so far as to use the cliché of tasting like heaven, but only if I must.

It took little work on my part to gain entrance to his mouth, exploring as he moaned, moving closer to me when I deepened the kisses. I was holding him up, turning so that I would be atop him if we fell backwards.

A few thoughts occurred at once and I moved from his mouth to his face, then down towards his exposed throat, enjoying the taste and whimpers he gave as I sucked the crook of his neck. One was that I needed to get him to open up, for I was certain that he was holding back quite a bit, and the second was that I should've thought of this much earlier, as it was enjoyable to a degree that not even some of my…less appealing habits, could be.

My hands wandered down his arm and then back to inside of his night clothing, happily touching all the flesh I could as he moved against me, muttering my name as I continued to use my lips above and my hands below. I knew I could get him to be senseless with awe over some things, but this…oh, this was something else entirely.

Whatever had been holding Watson back broke when I touched his heated organ, pulling me into a very through and long kiss that left me in need of air as his own hands moved, exploring my body as I had with his.

I cannot quite say what happened afterwards, for my mind left and my instincts took over, as Watson's participation seemed to help override any thought that I might have on seduction or what could happen. When I was lucid enough to think, we were both in need of a bath or something of the sort, he laying to my side and my hand sticky with his essence.

In some cases I do believe it would've been far from interesting, but in this one, I found that everything had gone terribly well.

I shifted enough to kiss his forehead. "Do you still believe that you force your affection upon others when I could do the same thing so well? It's all a matter of evening things out, Watson, like a chemical experiment…or deduction, or any other thing which requires give and take. Force is only applied when a person does not give and another takes, and in that case it becomes a crime."

"this…" he muttered sleepily, "can be considered a crime."

"I know. But we both gave and took equally, so in my views it is not."

"holmes…"

"You should rest, Watson, you sound quite tired. We can continue our explorations later, perhaps with varying techniques. I have always wondered if fallacio is as good as some would think."

I got a response from where my hand still lay, feeling it seem to move a little. Hrmm, so soon afterwards?

"That's not funny, Holmes."

"I didn't mean it as a joke. I have heard of a long list of things which can be done, to one or another, and committing fallacio upon each other seems like a most interesting one, especially considering how quickly a person's mind can disappear in such acts."

I don't think that was romantic, at least in some terms, but it gained such a response physically. "Holmes…"

"If you wish, of course."

I knew he did, but I had to bring it up, and if he refused…well, he always did enjoy being surprised.

Watson snuggled (I can think of no other term for it) and said, "I feel very odd, having you here with me and saying such things. Like in a dream, but I cannot think of what might happen, should I wake and you not be here."

I sighed, laying another kiss, this one on his crown and moving my hand to now hold him close. "Oh my dear Watson, I would never be so cruel, and if I was, I would have a reason for it, such as a client with an interesting case for us to see about, but I would wake you. That I can keep you from nightmares by sitting nearby, and wake you from being just a step closer, is enough for me. We can simply be here and know that I will never leave you as I did before, and should anyone try to take you away, I will do whatever I must to stop it."

"Even a wife?"

I snorted. "If you marry again I won't mind, so long as she loves you and I see it."

"Thank you Holmes."

I smiled. "Of course, Watson."

He was asleep a few seconds later, and I was happy to put off my ideas. I had a few, and we had time, more then enough, for me to consider what I could do to bring Watson out of that shell of his, for the small part that I saw matched me thought for thought, move for move. He was my perfect counterpart, and what else does one need for both a friend and a lover?


End file.
